Chapter 7 #2
I clench my fists, the weight of the moment settling on me. This is more than just proving I can do it. This is about mastery.
Valen gestures again. “Try again. This time, shape it into something useful.”
I exhale and shake out my hands. Let the tension drain.
Then I reach.
The earth responds, rolling beneath my feet, waiting. I picture a wall—not just for show, but for protection. Something solid. A barrier that could hold.
The mound tightens, sharpens, the rough edges smoothing as it compresses into something denser, taller, more defined. I feel the shift in weight, the way the soil compacts and hardens at my command. It takes more focus, more precision, but it listens.
A soft intake of breath behind me. One of the soldiers, maybe. They’re watching.
Valen nods, subtle but sure. “Better.”
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s harder than I thought.”
“That’s because Earth doesn’t obey. It partners. You don’t push it into place—you stand with it. Too much pressure, and it’ll crack. Too little, and it collapses.”
I run a hand along the wall. It’s different now. Not something dragged up from the ground—but something meant to stand.
Then—crack. The wall collapses in on itself, the once-solid mass crumbling back into loose dirt.
I curse softly, stepping back as the dust rises into the air.
The murmurs behind me grow louder. I can feel their watchful eyes, hear their whispered questions.
Valen, however, doesn’t react. He simply says, “Again.”
I wipe my palms on my tunic. I will get this right.
I press my fingers into the dirt, feeling the remnants of what I had built. I reach for it—not forcing, but guiding, like Valen said.
I picture the foundation first, the weight evenly distributed. The ground moves with me, shaping more smoothly, more deliberately.
I don’t just build a wall this time. I anchor it.
I step back, heart pounding, hands tingling from the energy still humming beneath my skin. Before me stands a wall of earth—solid, dense, real. It stretches ten feet across, six feet high, thick with compacted soil and stone. The surface is rough, uneven, but it holds.
I reach out, pressing my palm against it. The texture is firm, stable, and cool to the touch.
Valen steps forward, inspecting the structure. He presses a hand against it, testing its mass.
“This will hold,” he says, voice even.
I exhale slowly, letting the moment sink in. I didn’t just move the earth this time.
I commanded it.
But then, a crack splinters through the surface. Again. The entire structure collapses inward, the dirt giving way like sand slipping between my fingers. A cloud of dust rises, and frustration twists sharp in my gut.
Valen simply says, “Again.”
I wipe my palms and nod.
I will get this right.
We keep going until midday.
By the time we stop, I can feel it—the difference. Where the power once scattered through me, wild and overwhelming, it now runs closer to the bone. It still drains me. But I’m learning how to carry it.
After a midday meal, I meet Thane for my first lesson in combat. The training room at the outpost is unlike anywhere I’ve ever trained before. It isn’t just a place for practice—it’s a space that has shaped warriors.
The room is wide and utilitarian, designed purely for strength, endurance, and sparring.
The stone floor is worn smooth by years of boots and blades, but it still bears its history—grooves left by weapons, deep scratches from heavy boots, faded blood-dark stains.
Weapon racks line the walls: swords, axes, daggers, and spears, each blade gleaming from meticulous care. Shields hang nearby, dented and scarred, still carrying the weight of the last blow they endured.
Training dummies stand like sentries along the perimeter—some straw-filled, others leather-wrapped, all scarred from repeated use. A few hang suspended by chains, swaying faintly, like they’re waiting for the next fight.
To one side, a strength zone holds weighted stones, resistance bands, and thick wooden beams for balance drills. A towering pull-up bar anchors the space—ropes and rings dangling from its frame, built for pain and precision.
Sparring mats cover the center of the room; wide enough to allow full combat maneuvers, yet small enough to force fighters to rely on strategy, agility, and technique.
Along the far wall, a raised observation platform overlooks the space—built for warriors to watch, assess, and call out challenges. Benches rest beneath it, worn smooth where fighters have wrapped hands, sharpened blades, or traded barbed remarks between training bouts.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and oiled steel. Despite its size, the room feels close, intimate—meant for warriors to test themselves without the distractions of the outside world.
The training room is empty except for the two of us. No spectators. No murmuring soldiers. No eyes watching my every move. I should feel at ease—instead, I feel exposed.
Thane stands across from me, his stance too relaxed to be casual. His eyes, though, are sharp and already calculating.
“What’s your training history?” he asks, voice even.
I shift my stance, flexing my fingers. “I trained at my village.”
His brow lifts. The smallest flicker of interest. “With who?”
“Anyone who could teach. You know how it is in the villages,” I say, shrugging. “Everyone learns the basics—blade work, blocks, how to hold your ground if it comes to that.”
I glance at him, then down at my hands.
“Some train more. Some only enough to survive. But we don’t get to wait around hoping the Shadow Forces skip us.” My tone flattens. “Most of us never have to use it.”
I meet his gaze again. “But we all learn.”
Thane nods slightly, as if that answer was expected. “Weapons?”
“I know how to use a sword,” I say, “but I trained mostly with a staff and daggers.”
His eyes flick over me, assessing. “Hand-to-hand?”
I hesitate. “Some.”
His lips twitch slightly—not quite a smirk, but close. “Good. Then let’s see what you know.”
He steps onto the mat, rolling his wrists. The crack of his knuckles breaks the silence.
“No weapons this time. Just you and me.”
I nod, flexing my fingers, rolling onto the balls of my feet.
He moves first, a blur of motion.
I react on instinct, arms snapping up just as his palm slams into my forearm—redirecting his momentum, but the force still rattles through my bones.
He’s not going full strength. But he’s not playing either.
I try to counter, shifting my weight forward, aiming a strike at his ribs—he’s already moved. Like a shadow slipping between light.
Suddenly, he’s behind me. His arm hooks briefly around my waist—just enough to throw me off balance—then he sweeps my legs out from under me.
I hit the mat hard and gasp.
A moment later, Thane’s hand appears in my line of sight, offering to pull me up. I hesitate—just for a second—before I take it. His grip is strong, steady, pulling me up with ease.
Before I’m even upright—
“Again.”
I barely raise my hands before he takes me down again.
And again.
And again.
And.
Again.
Every fall jars through me, until the mat feels like it’s shaping to my spine. On the last fall, I can’t stop myself from groaning as I land on my back again.
“How,” I pant, “is this even remotely fair?”
Thane raises an eyebrow, standing over me, arms relaxed at his sides.
“Fair?” he echoes.
I throw an arm over my face.
“Yes. Fair. You’re the Warlord of the Realm. You’ve been training since you could walk. You’ve led armies, fought real battles—and I’m supposed to learn by being tossed around like a sack of grain?”
He crouches beside me, tilting his head. “Would you prefer someone less . . . lethal?”
I lower my arm just enough to glare at him. “Yes. That would be great, actually.”
His mouth twitches. Amused. “That’s not how this works.”
“Of course it’s not,” I mutter, forcing myself upright, rolling my aching shoulders. “Why would it be?”
Thane straightens. “You’re naturally strong. You’ve trained before. But your instincts are scattered. You hesitate, second-guess. And hesitation is often the difference between standing and falling.”
I narrow my eyes. “Pretty sure the difference right now is that you outweigh me by at least seventy pounds of muscle.”
His lips twitch again. “Maybe. But strength alone doesn’t win fights.”
I huff, pushing myself to my feet. My limbs ache, my body feels wrecked, but I refuse to stay down.
“Again,” I say before he can.
This time, Thane smirks. And then he moves.
I don’t even see it coming. A blur—too fast. His arm wraps around my neck, locking into place before I can blink.
I freeze.
His hold is firm, not choking. Controlled. His stance anchored behind me, solid as stone.
I’m caught.
How did he—? I’m stunned, sore, exhausted—and now I can’t move.
Thane doesn’t tighten his hold, but doesn’t let go either. He pauses, keeping me in place. His voice is low, steady, right at my ear.
“Okay. Now what do you do to get out of this?”
I twist hard, trying to slip free, but his grip is like iron, holding me in place.
Fine.
I slam my elbow back, aiming for his ribs. and it feels like slamming into granite. Pain shoots up my arm. I bite back a gasp.
Thane doesn’t even grunt. Doesn’t react. Did I even hit him?
I shake out my arm, elbow still stinging from the impact. My pride aches more than the bone.
Fine.
I go for his foot next, stomping down, hard. He shifts, avoiding it effortlessly, while still maintaining his hold on me.
I grit my teeth.
“Alright,” I say, exasperated, my voice muffled by his grip. “I have no idea. You might as well kill me now.”
His arm loosens, and he lets go completely. I stumble forward slightly, rubbing at my neck as I turn to face him.
Thane crosses his arms. “Let’s switch.”
I blink. “What?”
“Put me in the same hold.”
I hesitate. This feels like a trap.
“Go on,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Let me show you how to break free—even from someone bigger than you.”